


Wake Up

by duckcrab



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-24
Updated: 2010-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckcrab/pseuds/duckcrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: Wake Up<br/>Fandom: Inception<br/>Summary: Ariadne and Arthur and a morning after.<br/>Pairing: Ariadne/Arthur<br/>Rating: PG-13-ish<br/>Notes: INCEPTION_KINK <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/9327.html?thread=17211247#t17211247">prompt</a>: Ariadne particularly loves how Arthur looks in the morning before he's shaved his face. Fluff or morning!sex, mentioning the feel of stubble on her cheek is a must.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake Up

Routine is good. Routine is safe. Routine is real. It is the truly mundane things that she longs for after weeks of nothing but dreams, and playing pretend: her bed in all of its unkempt glory, half-drunk mugs of coffee on any and all flat surfaces. Even the dull scratch of bristles against her teeth is enough to satisfy her hunger for reality, as is the minty smell of the toothpaste, and the sharp sting of the mouthwash.

His presence is startling at times, new in a strange and ridiculous way considering the staple that he has become in her life, like breakfast cereal or socks. There are no rings or binding legal contracts, but commitment is possible without those trappings.

She knows him—knows that he will not abide red onions; that his music tastes range from Mozart to Meat Loaf; that he could not live without the worn copy of _The Once and Future King,_  a gift from his mother, inscribed by her swooping hand.

He knows her—knows that she hates too sunny days; that she is prone to jog on any given morning; that her most prized possession is a pencil, sharpened to a point but never used, that it is the last thing her grandfather ever gave to her before he died.

Cohabitation was a gradual process; his belongings migrating and mingling with hers until there was nothing else for him to do but stay the night, and the next night, and for a week, and then a couple of weeks…

He is Frankenstein’s monster in the morning, shuffling feet and communicating through grunts, groans and other primordial sounds. His eyes remain closed until sometime during his shower. He has the line from the bed to the bathroom memorized; a path learned through stubbed toes and head-on collisions with doorways.

She is still brushing her teeth when he comes in. He heads straight for the shower, letting it run a minute to heat up. His weight and warmth cover her from behind, and his arms circle her stomach. He pillows his cheek against her shoulder. 

His first words are, “Gmrning.”

After spitting excess toothpaste into the sink she replies, “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

“With my eyes closed,” he says, resituating, lips brushing against the back of her neck.  

“Very funny,” she says as the steam obscures their reflection. She knows that the morning after, the mark tends to linger on in his mind, that he sometimes re-dreams moments, that it makes for a very restless sleep. “I think the water’s warm enough.”

Over her shoulder she watches him shed his boxers, and remains unsure whether the shudder that comes is from the cool air that replaced his sudden absence or from the sight of him there, in such a way that she hasn't seen him for weeks.

Nearly a month.

Jesus.

Too long.  

“What do you want for breakfast? Do you want to go out, or stay in?”

Water slaps against everything: the curtain, the tub, the walls, his skin.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.  

“Let’s stay in,” he says. “I’ll make pancakes.”

She picks his shorts up with her toes, transfers them to her hand, and uses them to clear a circle of reflection on the mirror. After, she folds them up, places them neatly by the sink. 

“We don’t have anything for pancakes.”

“Last night,” the water shuts off, and the curtain opens, “we broke into a man’s dreams...”

Here he has to reach around her for a towel. 

"We found information," he kisses her shoulder, slips one finger under the tiny strap of material that helps hold one side of her shirt in place, and lets it fall wherever it may on her arm, "stole it," his teeth sink into a soft spot on her neck, "and exchanged it for money."   

"And here we are this morning..." his flips her around to face him. His fingers play at the elastic band at the top of her pajama bottoms, aggravating the ticklish skin there. He pulls her tight against him to punctuate the end of his sentence, "...talking about pancakes." 

"We lead a very strange life," she says. Not a moment after she utters the last syllable his mouth is on hers. His unshaven cheek brushes against her smooth skin when his lips take a little detour down the line of her jaw, and though it's jarring it is not at all an unpleasant feeling. 

"But you wouldn't change it?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."  



End file.
